her hands

as a child
you would stare
at your
grandmother's
hands, bewildered
at what
age does. the wrinkles
and brown spots
along the skin,
crimped
like dried
paper, once wet
and left in
the sun.
the nails
were hard and red
buffed like
candied almonds,
the rings, a gold
band, a diamond
set, clustered
like melted
snow, aglow in the
overhead light.
she played the piano
with those hands,
moving easily across
the keys. you
never learned to
play, but
they are your
hands now.